Дэвид Муди - Strangers

Walpoles looked like a typical builder’s merchant’s place: a dustbowl of a yard with pallets of bricks, slabs, joists and various other mounds of material dotted all around. It looked scruffy and rough, as behind the times as the rest of Thussock, but it reminded him of the work he used to do and the business he’d built up from nothing then lost. Three hundred and fifty miles away from home he might well have been, but a brick was a brick wherever you found it.

He couldn’t see any prices. He walked over to a pallet loaded with sacks of plaster, the whole thing still wrapped in plastic like it had just been delivered. ‘Help you there?’ a gruff, barely understandable voice asked. Scott turned around and saw a short, stocky, balding man standing behind him. He wore a grubby blue polo shirt with the ‘W’ from Walpoles embroidered on the breast pocket.

‘Just looking, thanks.’

‘Not the kind of place folks usually browse, this,’ the man said, and Scott thought he should explain.

‘Just pricing up. I’ve bought a house not far outside town. Got a few alterations planned.’

‘You in the trade?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I was,’ he answered, ‘until I moved up here.’

‘You in the grey house?’

‘Haven’t heard it called that before, but yes, it’s grey. Needs a lick of paint.’

‘On the road into Thussock.’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Willy McCunnie’s old place.’

‘Was it?’

‘Aye. Poor old Willy. Terrible, that was…’

Scott paused, uneasy. ‘You sound like you know something I don’t. You gonna tell me a horror story or something? Something bad happen there?’

‘Not that I know of. Lovely guy, Willy.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He died.’

‘Oh.’

‘Ninety-two he was.’

‘Oh,’ Scott said again.

‘Cancer.’

‘Right.’

‘So what’re you doing?’

‘What?’

‘To the house. What you plannin’?’

‘Complete overhaul by the time I’m done. The place needs gutting. Heating, wiring… Got some structural stuff to do first. Couple of walls to knock through, that sort of thing. Probably replace the kitchen and bathroom, maybe add a conservatory… like I said, pretty much a complete renovation.’

He nodded thoughtfully. Scott waited for him to say something, and had to wait a little longer than was comfortable. ‘You need to talk to Barry,’ he eventually said.

‘Barry?’

‘Barry Walpole. This is his yard, see. I don’t know what terms he’s doing at the moment. We just shift stuff about for him, he likes to do all the figures and the sellin’ himself.’

‘I’m not looking for any favours.’

‘Good. Barry won’t do you any.’

‘So where is he?’

‘Just gone out in the van to kick a supplier up the arse. Bugger short-changed him.’

‘Not a good move?’

‘Nope. You don’t upset Barry. You should come back later.’

‘Okay. Any idea when he’s due back?’

‘Nope.’

‘Right.’

‘Give it an hour.’

‘Okay. Is there a number I can get him on?’

‘He has a mobile.’

‘Great.’

‘But he leaves it here. Doesn’t like carrying it.’

‘Isn’t that why they’re called mobiles? So you can carry them around?’

‘Like I said, give it an hour.’

Scott turned to leave. He wasn’t getting anywhere. He started back towards the driveway and passed a grubby caravan he’d barely noticed on the way in. It was obviously being used as an office, and equally obviously had been parked in the same spot for some considerable time. There were piles of bricks propping it up at either end, the tyres were flat, and the curved roof had been stained green by fallen leaves and bird muck from the overhanging trees. In the window was a handwritten sign. It simply read ‘Driver wanted’. Scott looked back at the man and pointed at the sign.

‘Talk to Barry,’ he said.

‘Warren says you’re lookin’ for work?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’ve got experience?’

‘I can drive a truck, if that’s what you mean.’

‘It’s not. You know about the trade?’

‘Absolutely. I’ve had more than fifteen years experience, both working for myself and being employed on plenty of sites. Small scale domestics right up to large corporates. I was a project manager with—’

‘Fair enough. That’ll do.’

Barry Walpole chewed the end of an already well-chewed pen and watched him. Scott could handle himself, but Barry was an imposing character. Six feet tall and probably the same wide, he’d had to turn sideways just to get through the caravan door. The floor had groaned under his weight. The usual fitted furniture had either been stripped out of the van or had worn out, and Barry sat on a threadbare swivel chair behind a desk piled high with unsorted papers. There was a filing cabinet in one corner and a key cabinet screwed to the wall. The door of the key cabinet swung open several times and he slammed it shut as though he was swatting a nuisance fly. He took a swig from a mug of coffee, then put the cup down on a mountain of invoices. The silence was increasingly uncomfortable. Scott felt obliged to try and fill it. ‘So, how long have you been in business here?’ he asked.

‘Long enough.’

‘Trade good?’

‘S’all right. Shouldn’t complain but I usually do.’

‘Getting any business from that fracking thing over the way?’

‘Nope,’ he said and he leant forward and stared into Scott’s face. ‘Listen, this is one of those interviews when I ask the questions, right? So tell me this, why you here?’

Trick question? ‘Because you need a driver…?’

‘No, not here, here . Why d’you come to Thussock? Warren says you’ve bought Willy’s old house. Why d’you do that?’

‘We wanted a change of scene. A change of lifestyle, I guess.’

‘Just you and the missus?’

‘Three kids. One son, two step-daughters.’

‘You from the Midlands, ain’t you?’

‘Yep.’

‘Then I call bullshit.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. I don’t buy it.’

‘I don’t really care if you—’

‘Look, man, I don’t really give a shit who drives the bloody truck for me. Thing is, I don’t do bullshit, that’s all. No one moves their entire bloody family to a place like Thussock for the fun of it. Be straight and honest with me and we’ll get along fine. If you ain’t, then we won’t get along at all.’

Scott took a deep breath. Obnoxious fucker. Did he really need this? He was on the verge of walking out. For fuck’s sake, this was just some two-bit driving job. This Walpole bloke could shove it if he was going to be this anal. But he stopped himself. It was pride swallowing time. He needed cash, and this would do until he found something better or got the business up and running again. Lay it on thick , he thought, make him think you’re pouring your heart out . ‘I took on too much. Over-stretched myself. Lost a couple of blokes, defaulted on a loan payment and the bank threatened to pull the plug. I wound things down before they could wind the business up. Same old same old… happens all the time.’

Barry nodded and chewed his pen again. ‘It don’t take much these days. Never trust banks, me. Try and avoid them.’

‘Bit late for business advice now.’

‘So why Thussock?’

‘Why not?’

‘I could give you a hundred reasons.’

‘Fair enough. Distance, I guess. We wanted a clean break. It’s over three hundred miles. Six hour drive.’

‘You runnin’ away?’

Scott shook his head. ‘Like I said, clean break. Fresh start.’